We rule the mountains
by Night2Fall
Summary: It was not the proudest day in Rock Rider history - we had lost fighters, our Chief and 3000 gallons of guzzoline. And while I was trying to be a good interim Chief, Joey returned from his little family outing in the desert. Probably to exact some revenge on us for blocking the pass. Probably. The truth turned out to be far more to our liking...
1. Intake

**Intake**

 **Author's Note: I don't own anything connected to the Mad Max franchise. I'm not even sure I own the OCs, as all of them except one appeared technically (and unnamed) in Mad Max: Fury Road. So, praise George Miller and have fun reading.**

The cave was dark and shady and cool. A relieving contrast to the burning sun and the arid air outside. I carefully removed my helmet and stepped inside, keeping the goggles on for a moment longer, so the garish sunshine wouldn't mess up my ability to see in relative darkness.

Rickety shelves leaned heavily against the uneven stonewalls, filled with tools and spare parts, medicines and provisions, bandages and surgical instruments, well thumbed books about field medicine and of course the occasional weapon. A number of beds were arranged on the floor, made of car parts and inadequately softened with leather straps and goat hides. Doc Saveme was keeping watch over his only two patients: Slider, whose legs were both broken, and Flak, who had a nasty concussion and a couple of severe bruises.

"What a nice surprise, _Chief_!", Slider sputtered, the instant I stepped into her vision. "What're ye doing here? Just coincidently dropping in?"

I gritted my teeth. "Nah, I just wanted to hear your lovely voice. And refill my skins."

"Feel free to do so!", Saveme said, hobbling over. His right leg was stiff and he had never ridden, but he knew how to sell himself and his skills.

"How are they?", I asked silently.

"Well, Flak will be marching out of here in no time", the Doc replied, equally quiet. "Slider however... we'll have to see if she pulls through. In any case, I doubt she'll ever ride again. I mean, shit, her legs are _crushed_. When your man said she went under the wheels, did he perchance confuse wheels with tank treads?"

"Close enough. One of Joey's War Rigs." I had reached the far end of the cave, eagerly drinking a few mouthful of salty, sulfurous water from the little kolk, before refilling the two water skins I wore on my hip.

The Doc passed me a strange look. "Would you care to tell me in detail about all the interesting things happening outside of this cave? Cause they seem to come in barrels nowadays."

For a moment I hesitated. I was needed elsewhere. The Riders expected me to lead. To post the guards, to check with the Herders, to supervise the distribution of food, water and most importantly guzzoline. I hadn't exactly asked for this position, I had merely been the second-in-command when Goat had been shot atop the War Rig and I had taken it from there. Even if I was only to last as Chief for a short time, I didn't want to leave a mess to the more capable man or woman with whom the tribe would eventually want to replace me. There was no time to rest and tell a crippled doctor how the madness was going.

Technically.

But firstly I really didn't want to piss off the Doc and secondly I didn't mind another moment in the nice, chilly shadow of the cave.

"Right... Goat had a deal with one of Joey's Imperators. Three thousand gallons of guzzoline for free passage and a nice little roadblock for everyone who would be on her heels. Except, when she turned up, she had Joey's full force chasing her."

"Ouch." Saveme made a face and it was understandable. Immortan Joe commanded the single biggest force west of the mountains. He had everything: Guns, gas, water, fresh food and a huge gang of hell-bent half-lives fighting for his cause. It was foolish to get this man mad at you.

"Well, a deal is a deal, we were ready to stop them anyhow... I mean, three thousand gallons of gas." For some odd reason I felt my mouth water at the thought of it. "But the Imperator chickened out. Didn't trust us to hold up our end of the bargain, not to mention she was anything but alone."

"Screw honor in the Wasteland", the Doc nodded.

"So, Crick blocked the pass and everyone else went after the War Rig. Slider tried to get under the tanker, there was some kind of trapdoor there, but she got unlucky. We chased them through the foothills, landed a couple of hits with shells, but they shot back at us. This Imperator... a fucking sharpshooter. Don't think she wasted a single bullet." I paused, remembering everyone who had fallen under the precise shots of the Imperator and the relentless gunfire of her driver. Springs... Horner... Gin shot right out of the sky... and of course Goat, proudly landing his machine on the back of the huge mechanical monster that was the War Rig.

"Well, she wasted one on Flak", Saveme spoke up, when I remained silent for a second too long.

"Def'nitely feel wasted", Flak croaked, barely audible, his eyes still slightly asquint. He had survived a direct headshot. While most Riders preferred crash helmets of one kind or another (adorned and modified at their own creativity), Flak had been notorious for wearing a military steel helmet, a souvenir from his service in the Oil Wars. Two days ago, this had literally saved his life, although the impact had knocked him off his machine and caused a concussion.

"Anyhow, somehow the trailer with our gas got detached, but it crashed, ignited and then Joey himself was upon the Rig. Had run the roadblock in his son's freakish monster truck. And that's where we decided get the hell out of there, 'cause he looked scary as shit." I sighed and let my head hang. Not a glorious chapter in the history of the Rock Riders.

"Say, did you recover my machine?", Flak asked in the hoarsest voice I had ever heard.

"Yeah, sure we did. Siphoned off all the gas though."

"Frigging... smegs", the ex-soldier hissed, before falling back on his bed.

"You'll get some, when you get better", I promised, though I was not sure I would be able to keep this promise. Father Mountain was generous and helpful, but he didn't provide fuel for his children. Meanwhile, the self-proclaimed God of Guzzoline had been driving by two days ago in a Tanker Limousine, while we watched drooling. At the very least, we had been able to salvage a couple of gallons from the wreck of the Big Foot and it was a sickening display of wealth that these people could leave twenty gallons of fine fuel behind without further ado.

Twenty gallons... The Imperator had promised us three thousand. But they had gone up in flames and the Imperator was dead as far as I knew. There was no way she could survive everything that had been coming through the pass after her, even in the War Rig.

"And what will I get?!", Slider exclaimed, commandeering my attention. "A thank you for all deeds done and a bullet through the head, isn't it?"

"Say, you can still root, can't you?", I wondered.

Slider went rigid, her eyes widening. "You gotta be shitting me."

Saveme gave a little, amused cackle. "Now there's a Chief planning for the future."

"Fuck the future! Do you think anyone wants children anymore, just so they can have a look at this blasted Wasteland?!"

"The Herders do. Joey does", in the background the Doc laughed out loud, "and so did the Vuvalini, before they scattered. Buck up! If you don't see a future in this world, you would have taken that bullet much earlier, and gladly so. You're a full-life! You're strong, skilled and you are a Rock Rider! At least your children will learn how to survive the Wasteland from the start. And things are getting better, no matter the hardships. We can support a little deadweight, especially an acclaimed Rider like yourself."

Slider remained silent, in thought, and just then the roar of a bike came closer, rapidly so, until the machine appeared in the mouth of the cave. The Rider wore a full-face helmet, but the black scarf and the crossed machetes on his back made it easy to recognize him: Tip-Toe, one of the best Riders in the tribe.

"There ye are", Tip-Toe shouted. "Joey's coming back!"

I stuttered the first thing that came to mind: "For our asses?"

"No, he's chasing the War Rig. This might be a chance for us, ye better hurry."

Now, this was something I wanted to see. The War Rig was still on the run, I honestly hadn't expected that, but I was eager for the slightest chance of revenge for Goat. Quickly I donned my helmet and left with a hasty: "You lot, just get better!", in the rough direction of my wounded comrades.


	2. Compression

**Compression**

The ride was short and downhill, so neither Tip-Toe nor me bothered to start the engines. We just mounted and steered our bikes along the ridge, as they started to roll. We were maddeningly low on fuel and used every opportunity to save a thimble or two. Quite a lot of the Rock Riders had (reluctantly) been made into Rock Walkers, as the number of bikes we could keep operational dwindled. It was depressing to watch our mobility and reign over the highlands decrease by the day, the very thing that had earned us Father Mountain's protection. Where the flatlanders saw ravines of impossible steepness, ridges too narrow to navigate and rockslides too unstable to cross, we saw passageways, shortcuts and paths. The smooth ride through the canyon was for the unskilled.

In fact, that was all Father Mountain was about: deeming yourself worthy through strength and skill. He offered protection in his caves, if you dared enter them and used the planking wisely. He offered food, if you managed to climb after and hunt down a mountain goat. He even offered water, if you weathered the imperative desire to void long enough to become accustomed to the side effects of the salty liquid. He didn't give anything freely, but he put everything in sight and left it to the tiny people crawling along his massive flanks to figure a way to get it.

Even before I reached the guard-post, there was no way in hell I could have missed the road war raging in the foothills. The vibrant roar of engines was like a punch in the stomach for me who was sitting on a lifeless motorcycle. A thick dust cloud marked the way of the chase, still too far away to see details. Oily black smoke was drifting in from the desert, where something huge had been set ablaze. And the mad shredding of the Doof Warrior, amplified by a wall of speakers, was already loud enough to give me a headache.

Four Riders were waiting at the post, all up and alert. Crick and Big Sam took turns at using the rusty, dust coated pair of binoculars, while Dustfinger was looking through the scope of his treasured long range crossbow. Netta stood a bit back and had a small pot of goat broth tucked under her arm, hastily eating up, as if we were about to launch any second. But I wouldn't risk that: The combined forces of Gas Town, the Bullet Farm and the Citadel were way too much for us to take on and even a small scale assault on a straggler could be enough for a certain someone to retaliate. I didn't want to go down in history as the Chief who ignited the wrath of Immortan Joe.

"What's going on?", I demanded and was pleasantly surprised when Big Sam handed the binoculars over immediately. Being Chief, however reluctant, came with some undeniable benefits.

"Brand och mord ty tankbilen skall falla*", Netta muttered, chuckling dryly.

I didn't comment. People tended to slip into their mother-tongue and we had lots of them in the tribe. To Father Mountain it didn't matter where someone came from. Be skilled and be strong and thus you can become a Rock Rider.

The binoculars were in a horrible state, but through years worth of dirt and grease I scanned the trail leading to the pass. The Gigahorse was up front, it's rear bumper almost touching the War Rig, which in turn was in danger of being rammed by the Doof Wagon. A couple of Polecats were next in line, manned by stiffs or not manned at all. The rest of the armada behind them was foolish enough to let the terrain force them into the gorge that led straight to the pass. Flatlanders. It was almost comical how much they feared the uneven ground.

And suddenly I noticed something important. "Holy Father of Rock and Stone! They've taken quite a _beating_."

The force was still formidable. But it was down to about two thirds the numbers that had passed by only two days ago. The Bullet Farm apparently had taken the brunt of whatever had happened out in the desert. Most of their trademark plough-trucks were gone, as was, incredibly, the Peacemaker itself. The People Eater's Limousine was nowhere to be seen. The big rig that held spare pursuit vehicles was crammed with cars that were damaged and wrecked almost beyond recognition. The Citadel was running out of resources, for this time at least. Mayhap it was a bit early for conclusions - but I couldn't shake the feeling neither the People Eater nor Major Kalashnikov would ever again threaten someone.

"What do you think?", Tip-Toe mused, while I finally let go of the binoculars and handed them over to Crick. "They had a little run-in with the Harbingers? Or with the Wetland-Drifters?"

"I don't know and I don't care. For the time being, we stand by and watch. Let's see who's going to win." A thought occurred to me and I quickly reclaimed the binoculars. Those glasses could use a wash. But by now the convoy had closed in on our position and it was quite easy to recognize the woman who was just now crawling from the driver's cabin onto the bonnet of the War Rig. The Imperator. I couldn't help but be impressed by her relentlessness. Granted, she had killed Goat and so many others, but if I had been forced at gunpoint to root for someone down there, it was definitely the crew of the War Rig. Just imagine the possibilities of a world without good ole Joey...

There was an explosion on the Gigahorse. Tip-Toe, who was now holding the binoculars, was narrating: "She's thrust a lance into the back end... And now Rictus is getting out to see... Holy Father almighty tonight! Who is that?!"

"Who?!", Crick shouted impatiently.

"Looks like an angel", Tip-Toe replied flabbergasted. "Rictus is lifting her over and... there's more angels, wants to get 'em, now he's being attacked by... I think that's a Vuvalini... ages since I've seen one... and there she goes already."

Crick's patience snapped and he ripped the binoculars from Tip's grip, although the whole matter had moved close enough to see quite well without lenses. "Ah, that's heaps funny! Someone just attacked Rictus with a skull! And they fight... Whoops, behind the driver's cabin now, can't see them. Looks like a half-life is driving the Rig and I spot... two more angels and two more Vuvalini... three, there's one on the back of the Rig. And there's the man again... I'll be stuffed, seems like Rictus is down!"

All the ruckus on board the War Rig provided ample distraction from the happenings on the Gigahorse, but from the corner of my eye I saw a bright flash of red on Joey's mobile throne. "Crick! The Giga..."

No one needed conformation by our brother in arms, as a thin, feminine voice shouted: "He's dead!" Not even the Doof Wagon could silence this simple sentence, as it echoed in the canyon. I felt, as if a weight had been lifted off my chest, a weight I hadn't even known about. "He's dead!" Immortan Joe was - had been - feared and dreaded by any sentient being in the Wasteland. No one dared to stand up to him, even the Buzzards who leaped at everything and everyone like rabid dogs, fled when Joey's half-lives were looking for trouble. People had come by the hundreds to bend the knee and live by his mercy which was even more disturbing to me, as a Rock Rider and worshipper of Father Mountain. And now he was dead, as were all his Lieutenants: The Bullet Farmer, the People Eater, Rictus Erectus...

"Big Sam", I called, without turning away from the road war. "Alert everyone with an operational bike. Tell them to bring their iron rations. Once this hubbub is over, we're going to raid Gas Town."

The crew of the War Rig was making haste to board the Gigahorse. It was a simple plan: escape in the monster truck and let the War Rig crash to block the rest of the armada. Simple and clever, as there was no comparable bottleneck anywhere in the region. And it would leave them all trapped in our canyon...  
"Make haste!", I shouted over my shoulder, but Sam had already mounted and ridden away.

The only one left aboard the Rig was the War Boy. The cars were close now, I could see his eyes and was surprised not to detect any trace of battle fever or excitement. He was driving carefully, so the last of the angels could climb aboard the Gigahorse safely. He wasn't hell-bent for Valhalla, I realized. He would try to get out of there, the moment he didn't need to drive anymore. Amazing.

And then, Rictus scrambled over the roof of the driver's cabin, not as dead as they must have thought. The War Boy slammed down on the brakes. The Gigahorse sped away safely, while Rictus was thrown off his feet and almost off the Rig, too. He clung to the exhaust vents, howling with rage, while the War Rig accelerated yet again, but Joey's son wasn't having it. He grabbed the vents and ripped the whole motor clean out of the Rig. Flames burst from the gaping hole in the bonnet and danced around his boots, but Rictus didn't seem to care, holding the motor high over his head, turning to face the War Boy.

It was a breathtaking sight and a breathtaking display of stupidity.

Crick chuckled humorlessly. "He just bailed a War Boy up. Seriously?"

It was something basic. Don't corner a War Boy. Not. Ever. Because the second he realizes that he won't live another day, he will call for a witness.

And this one was no exception.

He steered the Rig against the next available bump and jerked the wheel violently. The whole mighty battle beast somersaulted, crushing Rictus and the War Boy alike. The tanker detached, rolled and skidded to a halt on its side against the wall of the canyon. Intact. I watched mesmerized, hardly noticing what happened to the tractor. Ten seconds... twenty... thirty... The tanker remained on its side, silent and still and _fully intact!_

The tractor had not been so lucky: the Doof Wagon and a number of Polecats had crashed into the wreck and the stone arc had collapsed on top of them. A single lucky bastard crawled from the wreckage, clutching his right arm, eventually collapsing to the ground. The rest of the armada came to a screeching halt in the canyon. Bumpers were being put to good use, but they all managed to skid to a standstill without any more wreckage.

The whole frigging armada was inside the kill-zone! And in utter turmoil, come to that. No one seemed to know what was going on, everyone was scrambling towards the crash site, even the Imperators. Their main concern was probably the fate of their almighty Joe.

My mind raced. We were only five and down in the canyon there were at least fifty men, but I didn't want to give them time to reorganize let alone to escape. Big Sam would arrive soon enough with reinforcements, but we couldn't just sit on our asses until then. And whatever we were going to do - it would be my decision. I was the Chief.

"Dustfinger", I started, hardly recognizing my own voice. "Do you see the Imperators? Can you get them from up here?"

Carefully, the sniper unsheathed his crossbow and re-attached the optics. "Mhm."

"Great, you stay up here and provide cover fire." I stopped for a second, clearing my throat. Something bugged me about this last sentence, but I couldn't put my finger on it. "Make sure you get any Imperator who is too close to the roadblock. Crick, stand ready to seal off the eastern entrance of the canyon. Go now and don't flip the switch until I give you the sign. Netta, Tip-Toe, mount. We'll ride down there and shell them. Hit and run. Stay close to the flanks and the rear, feel free to try running through the mess, but make sure you get out on the other side. Target the heavy weapons, flamers, mounted guns, the like. And the Imperators, we need to take them out as quickly and efficiently as we can. After each strike, climb up the precipice again, hide for a while, don't use the same route twice. Ready?"

"Reckon", Netta said, righting her bike. Crick was already speeding off to the eastern blocking position.

I grabbed the pouch of shells from the saddlebags of my bike and fastened it in front of the handlebars while mounting. Five homemade grenades and a loaded pistol against flamethrowers, harpoons, lances and whatnot.

This could be a disaster.

Probably not though. They wouldn't know what hit them.

But as the person responsible I stuck to the worrying thoughts.

* * *

*Swedish: Fire and murder 'cause the tanker shall fall.


	3. Power

**Power**

I kick-started the engine and the bike came to life. Quite literally. Suddenly the lightweight frame was shuddering with the power of a V4 engine, eager to run, to jump, to pick a fight. The handlebars, the saddle, everything I touched was so utterly familiar to me, it felt like an extension of my own body, an extension that reacted to my thoughts rather than to my movements. Most Riders felt that way about their machines. Otherwise they probably would have failed Father Mountain's tests.

We set out in a group. No more need to talk, no more need for orders. Riding out into combat was surprisingly relaxing. We had done this time and time again. Netta was driving up front, which would probably be the safest position. We would try to attack as simultaneously as possible, but even for us it was suicidal to drive down the slope two at a time. Whoever was leading the charge had the biggest element of surprise and whoever made up the rear (I was) ran the biggest risk at going up against prepared enemies.

I kept an eye on the traffic jam down in the canyon. There was no saying when, if ever, they were going to un-fuck themselves. Even the drivers were abandoning their cars to get a grasp of what the hell was going on. Motors were still running and shouts went back and forth. They definitely didn't hear us. Taking a quick look under my arm, I saw Dustfinger back at the guard post, relaxedly preparing his sniper position.

Netta went down the slope, taking a turn to the left immediately. She intended to run past the rear end of the armada, honing in on a modified ute that carried a flamethrower and her first shell went flying when Tip-Toe hit the ground of the Canyon.

I had merely time to notice War Boys turning towards the explosion, then I was off, racing down the steep incline. From above I had figured a way to weave through the fleet of cars and I bore down straight at that winding route between trucks and pursuit vehicles. A War Boy who actually held a lance in his hands leaped away, yelping in surprise and fear. To my left was one of the last remaining plough-trucks, apparently damaged, but the harpoon on the bonnet looked still operational so I lobbed a grenade at it. A pursuit car blocked my immediate path, but I spun easily, avoiding the craft and shelling the lancer's position. And suddenly I was through the mess, swinging to the left were Netta was already escaping via a goat path that zigzagged up the precipice to safety. There were shouts and running behind me and sparing a look, I decided the number of armed people that had amassed was worth the third shell. The explosion was followed by screaming, indicating a hit, while I raced up the goat path. The first gunshots whizzed through the air and I saw them chipping the walls of the canyon. A little out of breath, but otherwise fine, I reached the safety of the elevated position, where Netta was already waiting, giving me the thumbs up. Seconds later Tip-Toe had joined us. One of his machetes was missing.

"Down t' two", I reported.

"Down t' one", Netta said.

"Down t' four", Tip-Toe said, bending over to grab two grenades from his pouch and toss them over to Netta and me. That way, each of us had roughly the same amount of shells for the next run.

The shouting and gunfire from the canyon had increased drastically. I even heard a hysterical: "Show yourselves, drongos!" We'd have to wait with a second run.

On the other side of the gorge, Dustfinger was reloading his crossbow. He looked over to me, nodded wistfully and raised three fingers. Three Imperators dead and done for. There couldn't be too many more down there.

"Did any of you get an Imperator?", I wondered aloud.

"Straight through the chest, I did", Tip-Toe answered, proudly patting the empty sheath of his machete.

"And I spent most of my shells on back axles", Netta chimed in. "They won't be able to turn around anytime soon."

"Bonzer! Good thinking." I quickly gestured towards the east end of the canyon for Crick to rejoin us. There was no more need to seal the trap completely. The War Boys had nothing to move the demolished vehicles in their back.

The shooting trickled off, while the shouting had just really begun. Clearly, the forces of once so almighty Joey were now effectively leaderless, but still very dangerous. In fact, the absence of the Immortan would probably have a horrible effect on the War Boys. If their God had just taken off to Valhalla, why not use the very first opportunity to follow him there? The half-lives didn't usually go kami-crazy unprovoked but now, they just might do exactly that.

I carefully peered down into the canyon. War Boys were shouting at each other, gesturing, snarling like dogs, some looked as if they were about to start a fistfight. No one listened to what the other had to say. Some men were carefully watching up and down the walls of the canyon, but most were arguing and no one made an effort to man the remaining heavy weapons, like machineguns or launchers. Complete bedlam.

Quick hand gestures outlined our next attack to Crick and Dustfinger on the other side of the canyon. Right now, it was most important to disable the long range weapons down there. After that, it would be easy.

"Here we go!", I shouted, before turning my bike around, charging in again. On the other side of the canyon Crick scorched down into the fray almost at the same time.

I aimed for one of the ramps that were placed around the kill-zone and leapt high into the air, shell already in hand. It was a perfect position to hit nearly anything down in the chaos. My grenade landed next to an automatic shotgun and the weapon spun weightlessly through the air, while I suddenly regained my weight. The bike landed heavily back on the ground, suspensions using their full potential and in the split second that I could not control the machine, I ran over a Gas Town Boy who had already been raising his sawn-off. Quickly I swerved around, leaning so heavily into the curve my knee almost touched the ground, but I managed to avoid the car in my way and ride on, shelling the rear defense position of the last remaining big rig as I went.

Crick was passing me by in the other direction, whooping loudly while he lobbed a shell at a four-barreled launcher. There was a secondary explosion, as the magazine caught fire and the battle station of the car was blown off.

I had been forced to slow down, but I quickly accelerated, eager to get out of the canyon before...

"Witness me!", someone shouted to my left and I heard the sizzle of a spray-paint can. I weaved past an attack bike and bore down with all force towards the goat path leading back up to safety. There was a deafening explosion right behind me, I felt the shockwave hit me in the back and the world went crazy; apparently the War Boys had decided what to do. Half-lives screamed: "Witness!" or started to chrome themselves, ready for one last glorious battle.

The rapid fire of a small firearm rose over the mad hollering. I had made it to the goat path and couldn't risk to look, but I could imagine what was happening: Dustfinger was shooting while riding, probably gunning down every kami-crazy that was too close for comfort. Even on a bike at full speed, he was an excellent marksman.

I cleared the goat track and turned my bike around immediately, taking the pistol from its holster on the handlebars and aiming down into the canyon. Smoke was rising from burning wreckage and hampered my vision. It just perfected the hellish touch of the scene below: War Boys were screaming madly, waving lances and harpoons, some lay on the ground, dead or wounded, the latter being even louder than the unleashed madmen.

Tip-Toe was... dancing amidst the cars. It looked incredible. He was weaving his bike through spaces that seemed too small for it, used the slightest bump as a ramp and balanced on bonnets and battle stations, usually with his back wheel only, slamming into enemy fighters every now and then, grabbing a shell and throwing it almost carelessly over his shoulder. The resulting explosion knocked three Lead Boys and a kami-crazy out. Netta had already taken another one of our goat tracks to the safe high ground, the pouch on her handlebar was askew, showing she had used up all her grenades and right now she was busy disentangling herself from the straps that held her rifle on her back. Dustfinger reached the other side of the canyon, but although he was definitely a Rock Rider, he wasn't quite as good as the rest of us and decided against the goat track. Instead he turned east and raced in the direction of the foothills, where there was an easier climb. I covered him from above with the pistol, gunning down at least three War Boys, before I had to reload.

Crick was putting his hand gun to good use as well, while Tip-Toe eventually made it out of the bedlam and raced up the goat path at the highest speed possible. Netta had won her battle against straps and thongs and the first piercing crack of her hunting rifle echoed through the canyon. From this point onwards, it was a shooting gallery. The War Boys were equipped for relative close car-to-car combat, the sawn-off shotguns so treasured by the drivers didn't even have the effective reach to get us up on the cliffs and in their current state of excitement they were probably unable to shoot straight anyhow.

Some men escaped. While the destroyed archway blocked the path even for a bike, a man on foot could squeeze past with relative ease and quite a number took the opportunity: Most of them were full-lives from Gas Town and the Bullet Farm, but some War Boys ran for it as well. I didn't shoot at them; there was no need to waste ammunition on someone who was running for the sake of running and my fellow Riders followed the same notion.

Which left the kami-crazies who were starting to scale the walls of the canyon, screaming, wide-eyed demons clawing their ways out of a chasm that was filled with smoke. Some were simply howling like animals, silver saliva dripping from their mouths, but among that there were distinct cries: "For Immortan!", "Valhalla!", "We follow him, we follow him wherever he goes!", "V8!", "Glory and chrome!", "We'll get you! We'll get all of you!", "Ride the sun!", "Make him proud!", "Immortan!"

The world got just a little more mad. I kept shooting at any War Boy I could see, armed, unarmed, alive, wounded, dead. I wasn't taking chances with these suicidal maniacs. I heard the guns of Crick, Netta and Dustfinger, the screams of the dying, the occasional sound of an explosion, whenever a War Boy failed at handling his lance and eventually the roar of V4-engines, as Big Sam returned with reinforcements and although we technically didn't need them, they sped things up quite a lot.

Over the course of the battle, a few War Boys managed to scale the cliffs on my side of the canyon, as there were only Crick and Dustfinger on the other side who had an angle at the climbers. One appeared directly in front of me: suddenly a white, hairless head popped up over the cliff, screaming: "Witness!", but I was too caught up in the fight to jump back or feel fear and he was so much closer than the others, which made the headshot almost too easy.

Another one reached the high ground and ran towards Netta. Unarmed. She actually lowered her rifle, whether because of surprise, fear or disbelief, I couldn't tell, and the War Boy slammed into her, throwing her off her bike and nearly over the edge. They struggled on the ground, when Big Sam himself arrived, jumping off his own machine, grabbing the War Boy with both hands and throwing him back where he had come from. Netta clumsily got back on her feet and it wasn't until much later that we learned the scrapes on her visor were actually teeth marks.

A third climber had been able to drag a lance along, all the way up the wall, but he had just set a foot on the ridge, when he was hit by three shots in the chest. The half-life dropped his lance and the explosion kicked up a thick cloud of dust. When it cleared, there was no sign left of the War Boy, not even blood on the rocks, as a reasonable chunk of the ridge had been blasted back into the canyon with him. It was as comical as it could get in this craziness.

And finally... it was over. The screaming had stopped. Only the flames moved down in the canyon. The echoes of our last shots were ringing out and the world felt strangely silent.

"Quite a haul", someone said and suddenly it was all about racing everyone else to the bottom of the canyon, laughing, hollering, cheering.

I leaned my bike against the canyon wall and continued on foot, shouting orders, as I went. Every car with its engine still running had to be turned off as soon as possible. No one was to go near a dead War Boy, unless he was absolutely positive the half-life would never stand up again. In case of doubt, shoot him once more in the head. Utmost care was to be taken with lances, I quickly ordered Crick to take a team, gather them up and defuse them. The fires needed to be put out, there was enough sand around for that. In due time I intended to send a search party after the escapees, but there was no hurry. They wouldn't get far on foot.

Finally, I made it to the carcass of the War Rig, laying on its side. The trapdoor was a gawking black mouth, easy to reach and it reminded me painfully of Slider and her crushed legs. However, when I peered inside, my thoughts were quickly taken off that matter.

"Greenies", I whispered, eagerly removing my helmet and grabbing a head of lettuce. It had been thrown around inside the compartment of the tanker and when I shook it, sand trickled to the ground, but that didn't bother me the least. I was used to sand in my mouth.

The first, hearty bite was marvelous. The texture of the thin, green, wrinkly leaves, the satisfying crunch when I ripped them off, the taste of water and freshness, it was almost too good to be true. And only after the second bite did I fully realize, that there were _crates_ of lettuce and cabbage and all sorts of vegetables inside this War Rig. And guzzoline. And water. And maybe even milk. Other tribes had it in their heads that we were drowning in milk, because we had goats, but that was decidedly not the case. The Herders didn't dare to remove anything from the delicate cycle of scrubs and milk that would nurture the yeanlings.

"What've ye got there, Chief?!", Tip-Toe said, coming closer. He was cleaning his machete with a rag, wiping bloodstains off the sharp blade.

I turned and waved the lettuce. "Green food! Have a bite! You definitely earned it!"

Tip dropped his weapon and, by the look of it, almost broke his neck while tearing off his helmet. I tossed him the vegetable and he sank his teeth into it without further ado. He chewed with closed eyes, a grin spreading over his face. "Father Mountain rewards the reckless."

"So he does!", another Rock Rider cried, while people started to converge on the War Rig. The lettuce was handed around, rapidly growing smaller in size.

"And who was the reckless one?!", Crick exclaimed, his pockets stuffed with explosives from defused lances. "Whom do we have to thank for this beaut haul?! Is it _just_ Goat's lieutenant or may we have ourselves a new, fair dinkum Chief here?!"

The rest of the Riders shouted their approval and I didn't object. I felt great. I had just coordinated the most successful raid in Rock Rider history. Joey and all his commanders were dead. Things were about to change. And my worries that I would be a poor leader had just been extinguished.

I looked up at the rocks and the sun was highlighting every sharp peak and every gravely slope. Father Mountain was smiling down on me and I wouldn't fail the tests he had put in my path.

"Alright then!", I shouted. "No standing around! We've got an armada to salvage!"

* * *

 **And that's my tribute to the Rock Riders who defied Immortan Joe, Furiosa and (occasionally) gravity. Seriously, their chase scene blew me away. There's another chapter coming (and if you've paid attention you can easily deduce the title of that chapter), but to me it's more an epilogue than a complete chapter. Thank you for reading, review if you like and once again: I don't own a thing about Mad Max.**


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